


Co-operation

by venus43



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, ice hockey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29507214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venus43/pseuds/venus43
Summary: After leaving high school, up and coming hockey player, George has to decide whether or not he continues playing at a new club. With a new team trouble is bound to arise and George has to figure out how to navigate new problems – and people.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Starting something new !! 
> 
> Hi, so I've been wanting to write something multi-chaptered for a while now and I've always loved hockey and hockey au's so I decided upon this. I've got a pretty clear outline for where I want to take it so I hope you'll like it and decide to tag along for the journey !!

The way the lights flash in the ice rink feels blinding, with every cheer and shriek he hears, the firm grip he has on his hockey stick tightens and his muscles tense, shaky breaths showing up in small puffs directly in front of his face. It’s only luck that’s gotten them this far, George supposes, their team’s pretty weak when he actually thinks about it, their centre isn’t aggressive enough and the defensemen shy away from the action whenever it comes close, so honestly, he should feel glad that they’ve even got this far. That they got to travel for so long to play against people who were supposedly the best players in their region, even if it was just for them to suffer through a crushing defeat in the end.

George’s legs burn when he finally pushes his way back onto the ice, sure of every movement he makes and light on his feet; the other team’s lined up and just waiting, practically taunting them at this point, knowing there’s barely any minutes left and just using the time to play whichever game they wish. It’s heart-breaking honestly, knowing that no matter how much effort they really put into it they’ll never be able to catch up, and George has to force his breathing to steady and shake his head vigorously, just to try and get his focus back onto what’s in front of him. 

He’ll lose with dignity- that’s for sure.

Stealing a glance to the side, his skates threaten to wobble underneath him, and he lets himself grimace, the action hidden under his helmet. The seconds between him leaving the bench and getting to the left wing feel as though they drag on for hours and normally, he’s thinking quicker than this, normally, he would have stolen the puck by now, searched for that winning move or at least found some way to make this less embarrassing for them. 

His parents are in the audience, cheering on even though the games already lost, and George wishes he’d never spotted them in the first round so he could feel like right now the only people he’s actually letting down are his team. 

Reality seems to pass by too quickly, just falling past his eyes and reminding him he can’t move quick enough to even reach it, but still he tries, each push against the ice completely calculated and calm, barely matched by the other teams ‘number 18’, who tries his best to keep up but leads recklessly, only just managing not to trip up over his own feet. He’s barely taller than George, with wide shoulders and a serious expression on his face, and usually it isn’t intimidating to see, there are plenty of players that move exactly like he does, but right now George feels trapped.

There’s no victory in his grasp when he blocks the centre’s pass, it’s a beautiful move and he knows it but it’s still not enough. He loses the puck far too quickly, unable to stop the exhaustion from creeping up from behind him and forcing the adrenaline to the side. Skating has always been the easiest part of the game for George, but now it’s as though he’s completely forgotten how to take a step. Making the moves he needs to seems too hard to comprehend, his team all scattered around the ice looking completely crushed and barely moving, and the final push sends him darting over to the other end of the rink, desperation running through his veins as he watches the centre make a pass that shouldn’t make it – surely.

He stumbles, only just getting his balance back when the cheers get louder, the shouts and screams only becoming more as the other team starts to rejoice. Time ticking down to nothing. Their centre, the star of the game, George thinks bitterly, pulls his helmet off with a yell and lets the blond locks of his hair flop down to stick to his forehead, a beaming smile on his face as he signals for the crowd of people to cheer more and send his ego through the roof. 

His last breath is still caught up in his throat and George can’t bring himself to look up at the crowd and glance towards his parents, who’d definitely still be sitting there with reassuring smiles. Pushing down against the ice, he glides over to the bench where the rest of his team has resided to and he sighs – High School Hockey shouldn’t feel this intense.

The same defeated look sits on everyone’s face and their coach stands beside them with his arms crossed in front of his chest. George’s body feels heavy and he props his stick up against the teams bench, leaning back on the clear plastic ‘glass’ behind him, waiting for someone to just say something. He holds his helmet in his left hand, his hair sweaty and sticking to the back of his neck, uncomfortable and warm.

“I’m proud of you guys for making it this far,” their coach says eventually, his tone laced with unspoken disappointment. 

George can sense how broken everyone really feels over this, it’s their first loss in a while and their heads hang low and their shoulders sag, as though they honestly believed that their team had a chance. Behind them the other team are only just beginning to disperse, still just as rowdy as before as they celebrate their victory- which George can admit was deserved.

They should have practiced more, George thinks, they just weren’t as coordinated as the other team were so maybe, if they had practiced more often, had put more time into it, then they might not have suffered so much – but it’s all just what-ifs, they lost and that’s that, nothing they can do about it.

Everyone’s making their way off the bench and towards the locker rooms, pulling off helmets and taking off anything they can; George is just about to follow, slipping his mouth guard out with distaste when he hears his name echo though the rink.

“George!”

Holding back a groan, he turns around, none of his team really bothering to look back and see what’s going on and when he’s met with the emerald green eyes of the other teams’ centre, he can’t help but slump down a bit more. They still have an audience, friends and excited school kids, as well as parents and teachers, all littered around in different seats, most of them sat with a smile and watching the blond skate over to where George is stood.

Reluctantly, George waits for the centre to make his way over, their eyes meeting and leaving George with a scowl on his face. “What do you want Dream?” he asks bitterly, the stupid nickname leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

"You lost,” Dream observes, a smug grin coming into place on his lips and George wants nothing more than to punch it straight off of his face.

“I did,” George agrees, “So what?”

“ _So what_ ,” Dream repeats, mocking George’s accent. He chuckles, cocky and overconfident, frowning when George doesn’t rise to it and looking down at him in a way that makes George feel small. “Honestly, your attempts were kind of pathetic. We humiliated you guys.” He finishes his sentence with a little laugh, helping to add to the scowl on George’s face. “You’ll just never be as good as me.”

Rolling his eyes, George glances to the side, not wanting to give Dream the reaction he wants and choosing to run his eyes over the crowd.

It’s always been the same with Dream, he can’t help but to push and poke at George’s buttons whenever he can, always going a bit too far so George has to eventually just walk away, because he’s not dumb, George knows when he’d lose a fight - and the six inches Dream has on him is quite telling.

As much as George hates to admit it, Dream does find a way to get under his skin, but he does his best to ignore the centre, staring straight past him in the way he knows Dream hates and acting as though his existence doesn’t mean a thing to him, but still, Dream doesn’t seem to leave. “Did you just come here to gloat?” George asks eventually.

“Pretty much,” Dream says, tilting his head back to get wet hair out of his eyes, “I guess I’m always just going to be better than you.” He shrugs and smiles, and George can see the joy on his face. It’s as though Dream really doesn’t have anything better to do than taunt him.

“You have a good team,” George says, turning to meet Dream’s eyes with a patronising smirk, “But that’s it. Without them you’re nothing.” He sighs, noting the way Dream’s expression turns to stone, then shifts into a glare.

“Shut up.” Dream tells him, making George scoff and turn away.

“So, you can poke at me all you want, but when I do it it’s too far,” George mocks, a fake laugh bubbling up and falling from his lips, “It’s not my fault you’ve got zero talent.”

“Speak for yourself.”

He huffs, “Good one.”

Usually, in situations like these, George will be the one to back down, see the tension go past a casual rivalry and to something that could actually dig deep, but today he doesn’t. Instead, he crosses his arms and leans back, faux confidence on his face. “It’s a shock you’re even on the team the way you play – they would have won quicker if you were on the bench the whole game.”

It’s a lie, obviously, Dream’s probably the best player there and George can’t ignore that. It isn’t jealousy or bitterness or anything close that makes him say it, he doesn’t know why if he’s being honest, maybe it was just to see the look on Dream’s face, the sullen expression that flashes to anger in a heartbeat. 

Furrowing his eyebrows, Dream turns to the side, an odd he hasn’t seen before gracing his lips. “Be quiet George.”

Stupidly, George ignores him. “Honestly just give up. You won’t get anywhere.”

It’s always hard to tell with Dream when he’s gone too far, hard to know if he’s actually getting angry, or whether he’s had a bad day and the smallest comment is going to push him over the edge. To be honest, George doesn’t really know what he’s done, this is just the normal bitter after-game talk for them, usually with Dream saying all the things he is now. But when the latter reaches forwards, fisting his hand in George’s shirt and pulling him up, George doesn’t know how to react.

“What the fuck!” He exclaims, Dream pushing him back, so he slams up against the wall, ripping the air out of his lungs. “Dude get off me.” He tries to drag Dream’s hands off of him, but he’s crowded up against the plastic, a sudden rush of pain jolting through his body. His head’s pounding, and he feels Dream let him go instantly, shaking off his fist with wide eyes and the side of George’s face feels numb as he clutches at it.

He’s barely standing up, the skates on his feet shaking as he processes what’s happened – Dream punched him, he actually _fucking_ punched him.

“What was that?” George yells, not caring that he’s definitely making a scene, and the eyes of the few people that still haven’t left are all on them. He shoves Dream back, watching his feet sway on his skates and him almost fall. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Standing in front of him, Dream looks almost as shocked as he does, his eyes wide and still blazing with fire, stepping back a fraction when George lets go of his own face. “Don’t say that shit.”

“Oh, fuck you,” George exclaims, seething. “ _Motherfucker_.” Taking a deep breath, George scowls at the centre, using his left hand to hold his cheek where he knows it’ll bruise tomorrow. Dream’s teammates are already flocking around them, like a pack of wolves all throwing themselves towards Dream and asking him if he’s alright – which George resents because hey, Dream’s not the one that got punched in the face.

Pushing his way past the angry players with no one stopping him, George forces his way out of the arena and into the hall leading towards the room that’d been cleared out for his team to use. Screw that, he thinks, who the does Dream even think he is. 

From behind the ‘locker room’ door, George can’t hear the usual rowdy cheers and arguments from his team, everything just seeming sombre and dull, so he pushes the door to the side and steps in, not one of his teammates acknowledging his entrance.

The familiar smell of sweat greets him immediately, he sits down on one of the seats that line the walls and pulls the skates off of his feet, the tension in the room making him rest his head down on top of his hands, discomfort knitted onto his face. It’s a room full of miserable, sweaty guys, all haphazardly throwing their clothes into bags: jerseys and shin pads and gloves all stacked on top of each other in disarray. 

Nobody says anything as they shuffle out of the room, bags all strung up on their shoulders and they all walk underneath a shared cloud of disappointment to the bus. He’s agreed to meet his parents back at home, take a walk back from the school building to clear his head but the more he thinks about it, the more the exhaustion creeps up to him and he wants to just crawl back to bed and sleep.

At some point they reach the exit, the guy in front of George holding the door open for him and letting the whole team go through. At the opposite side of the parking lot they can see their bus, their coach standing next to some other man who’s holding something he can’t quite see in his hand. When they get closer, the man smiles at them and their coach beckons them over eagerly, grabbing the sleeve of George’s plain white t shirt and tugging him in front of them both. 

“Mr Found?” The man asks, glancing towards the coach for confirmation, and when he nods George is pulled further away from the rest of the group, around the other side of the bus. 

He glances behind him curiously before nodding, “Yeah, that’s me.”

The man smiles, “I’m Charles,” he says gesturing towards himself, before extending a hand towards George for him to shake – which he does. “I just wanted to give you this.” A small red and black leaflet is thrust forwards into George’s hands, and he looks down at it hesitantly, looking at the little print of a penguin on the front with a confused stare.

“I was watching the game,” Charles continues, “And I think you could be a great asset for any team to have. You’d do well playing for my club after High School.”

For a moment, George doesn’t respond, he reads the small words on the leaflet, faintly recognising the name and trying to place where from. “Are you a coach?” George asks, folding the leaflet in half and slotting it into his pocket.

Shaking his head, Charles points to where George has put the paper, “The information’s all in there, and I’d really consider checking us out, we’re pretty creditable.”

“I didn’t know there were uh- Scouts coming to watch.” George says, awkwardly, but Charles doesn’t seem to take offence, just smiles and nods.

“There were,” He confirms, “And personally, I thought your playing was great.”

“Thanks.”

Charles nods, looking on at George as though he’s waiting for something, “So you read over that information and get back to me when you can, yes? We’ll have a place for you if you want it.” 

He nods slowly. “Sure.” He can see the hesitant look that Charles wears, but he ignores it, a tight smile on his lips as he turns with pure confusion painted all over his face. He treads back to the front of the bus, seeing his teammates all already sat down and staring at him, barely shielded anger radiating from them all.

George understands why, him being the only one of them to get a placement offer for the upcoming years so-far would annoy anybody, but the icy glares he gets still makes him feel uncomfortable as he shuffles towards the back, throwing his bag to one side and sitting down next to it. He pulls his phone out of his sweatpants and groans, letting his head fall down against the slightly tinted windows.

What a way to end the school year.

~

The next few days pass too slowly. George barely leaves his room, choosing to just watch the previous match over and over again, analysing every move he made and seeing how they could have done better. It hurts to watch, a small stabbing sensation clawing through the centre of his chest whenever the camera pans around to show the smiling faces in the crowd and every time he watches it, he notices another small opportunity to score a point and possibly change the outcome, killing him more and more.

The dim light shines through his window and onto his feet, evening sky being ignored as he lies back with his head resting on his pillow, brown hair tousled underneath him that he won’t even try to fix the next time he gets up.

On the top of his desk lies the team leaflet he was given. The club having been looked up and screenshots of information in a folder on George’s laptop. It’s an impressive place, he can’t lie. They have a good win rate and have held players he definitely has heard of. Honestly, they’re probably one of the best clubs in the area, choosing to take in students after high school and shape their style a bit more before sending them off again. 

To be honest, George can’t really understand why he’s even got a change at a place there. Not that he has any complaint about it, no other club had reached out to him about his post-high-school life, so this was probably his best chance of actually going somewhere. On the other side of his room, George’s phone sits isolated, the number for the club already saved under a contact but never having been called. 

No matter how good the offer seems, George still can’t convince himself it’s for him. He’s obviously not the best player out there, so going to a team full of people that are sure to have double his skill level would just be painful – he’s not cut out for that. 

As expected, his parents were practically jumping at the chance for him to carry on playing, especially at a place so well known, they’d practically thrown themselves towards the phone to call and accept on his behalf, but George was quick to shut that down.

“Give me time to think about it,” He had said, trudging up the stairs and into his room to mope around for a few more hours and he had seen the confused expression on their faces, as though that wasn’t the response they had been expecting.

Admittedly, he had never gone back to tell them whether or not he was interested, and he could tell by the way his mothers’ shoulders would tense whenever he’d walk into a room that she was desperately waiting for some sort of answer. Maybe he would say yes, just for his parents though.

It’s not often that George doesn’t know what to do. Normally, he’d have a plan that reaches far more steps in the future that it needs to, he’s the first person the roll their eyes and move on when something doesn’t go his way – but this is different. Everyone had been routing for them and they couldn’t even get close to the other team, the red and purple bruise on his face reminding him of the smug look Dream had been wearing when he’d seen George’s annoyance at their loss.

Maybe it was the fact he hadn’t left his house in days, but George can’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, he hasn’t felt so dejected in forever and it isn’t a feeling he wants to get used to.

“Whatever,” George mumbles to himself, voice croaky from not speaking. 

Shuffling over to his closet, he rummages around, pulling out a pair of baby blue skates, completely different to the ones he wears during matches – the blade longer and much straighter with a small toe pick on the front. He pulls them up by the laces, making sure the guard is fully on before swinging them over his shoulder and shuffling out of his room, a small frown remaining on his face as he grabs a piece of paper and a pen off his kitchen table and writes down a small note to explain where he’s going before he gets ready to leave.

~

George hasn’t seen many completely empty ice rinks. 

Every time he’d turn up to practice there’d already be tonnes of people either setting up or already skating, or when he’d just go for fun there’d be others all drifting across the ice on shaky feet, probably not as practiced as he is, but he’d never say that aloud. It’s completely different when he’s there alone, other than the faint hum of the vending machine behind the counter, and the turning of pages from the security guy who’s seen him there far too many times to think he’s a threat, he can stay in his own head without bother.

Carefully, he slips the guards off of his skates, stepping onto the ice and trying to get used to the feeling of the slight curve under his foot, that nearly interrupts his balance before he pushes off. Skating like this had always come naturally to George, he was always quick with his every move and never strayed out of line, each step intentional and executed perfectly. 

It’s much easier without the pressure of a hockey stick in his hands, when he doesn’t have to search endlessly for a puck that probably won’t even come in his direction and he smiles slightly, bringing his hands up a fraction to help him stay stable. 

Whenever he gets to skate by himself it feels as though he’s weightless, he takes one step after another, notices the way his shirt seems to stick to his skin and closes his eyes – putting all of his trust into his knowledge of the rink. Not being able to skate like this anymore would be a shame, with all the practice that he knows he’d have to do if he joined another club, he probably wouldn’t have enough time for skating just because he wants to. 

It’s hard for George to imagine what may happen in the future, there are so many decent colleges in the area and he’s already applied to a few, hoping to get enrolled in a course he’ll find easy so he can get through the next few years without bother. But then, if he carries on playing, alongside attending whichever class he gets into, he’ll get to see the way his parents’ faces light up whenever he tells them there’s a match coming soon, and the proud smiles on their faces when he wins. 

The initial move to America had been difficult but being able to do something that made his parents so happy at a new school made it worth it. Hockey had always been a part of his life, even back in England, but there he’d never really felt a passion for it, preferring to just struggle around the ice while his parents would help him out. 

A new school brought change, he picked up a sport, lost a bit of his accent only for it to come straight back whenever they visited relatives, but most importantly he’d found places like this.

On the cold ice, he lets his feet guide him around, not putting any thought into it when he turns sharply, spinning on the rink with the blades cutting up the ground beneath him, leaving little indents that will have to be smoothed over later once he’s left. 

His movements get messy when he falls out of his turn, only stumbling for a second before picking back up and pushing down lightly to slow himself, coming to a stop directly in front of the barrier. Brown hair falls down on top of his forehead, cold, harsh breaths coming out in unstable pants that make his teeth feel sensitive. His chest rises and falls, legs aching slightly from the few days without practice and the fact he didn’t stretch out beforehand. 

Starting again, he takes laps around the rink, pushing every thought he has to the side so he can just move in peace.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, sweat sticking to his skin and making him shudder before he pushes his hair back out of his eyes, staying still for a moment to catch his breath.

A part of George wants to drop down onto the floor, sit on the ice and just stay there until he’s forced to leave and pull himself towards the barriers on unsteady feet. Instead, he skates over to the plastic walls, dipping his head down into the little spot where he can get off of the ice safely.

Cursing inwardly, George hobbles over to the stools just outside of the room, sitting down with a thud. He leans forward, fiddling with the laces until they come undone before slipping them off his feet. They’re pretty skates, mainly white with a pastel blue lining and undertones, making them shine slightly brighter when he looks at them through dark eyes.

With his thumb and his forefinger, he holds the tongue of the skate loosely, looking over the scuffed sides with thought. 

Truthfully, George knows the real reason he hadn’t decided on anything yet, the thought of either moving past this part of his life or choosing to continue it to a higher level is terrifying. The idea of joining a new group of people who’ll all have to learn how to play around each other feels like a set up for failure, but honestly unless he tries it, he’ll never find out.

He’s never been the type of person to jump into something fully, always wanting to weigh out his options and make sure that he won’t get hurt by something unexpected; maybe that was his downfall too, he’d never found the ability to be reckless in the way his teammates wanted him to, and his coldness made sure they were never too fond of him. Perhaps this was an opportunity for change, something he could throw himself at and hope for the best, it’s petrifying and uncomfortable to even think about, but might just be what he needs.

Sighing, George tugs open his bag, pulling out the guard and sliding it onto the blade of the skate, trying not to cut his hand as he does so – the pretty pale blue of the leather rough on the tips of his fingers. He covers them in a towel and sets them down inside of his bag, pulling out his own shoes and going to put them on his feet. 

Mind moving too quickly for him to catch up, George tugs the shoes on, staring blankly at his hands before he goes back to what he’s doing. He ties the laces slowly; stands up and drags the bag up over his shoulder, shifting between feet for a moment to get used to the feeling. Finally, he goes to leave the area, his head ducked down awkwardly as he lifts his hand in a small wave to say he’s leaving. 

He finds the exit quickly, the cool air sticking to his skin when he pushes through the door and steps into the dim moonlight that’s shining down from the now dark sky. For a summers evening, the weather is surprisingly cool and there’s a part of George that wishes he had brought a jacket. From the inside of his bag, he can hear the light buzz of his phone – most likely his parents calling to ask if he’s alright, but the rink isn’t that far from his house, so he decides against checking his messages and continuing to walk.

It’s a good opportunity, George thinks, kicking a pebble across the road weakly and watching it skip across the concrete, maybe it’ll be right for him. He passes by each house with doubt still sitting at the front of his mind and it’s unusually quiet throughout the neighbourhood despite it being the end of the school year.

He lets the walk drag on for longer than necessary, purposefully missing the shortcuts he knows best and choosing to walk along all the other paths he sees and just before he finally reaches his house he stops, feet skimming the uneven ground.

It’s getting darker outside with every second, and he’s not even sure he brought his keys, but before he goes to check he sits down on the step just in front of his door. His hands find his face and he groans, looking out at his surroundings. 

A new team means new beginnings – except for when it doesn’t. Except for when George carries through his high school life and ruins it in the way he knows he could – still there’s a chance might not: he could make friends, play better than he ever has, maybe show people like Dream they aren’t as good as they think.

He frowns, sighing once more before standing up, thoughts slightly clearer than they had been before he’d left and he attempts to open the door, searching for his keys on his body. It’ll be fine anyway; he can sleep on it. 

~

Late afternoon the next day, George sits leaning over his phone with sweaty palms, waiting for the line to beep. The call connects too quickly and he’s sure the person on the other end can hear him sweat.

“Hello?” They say, their voice echoing out into his bedroom and George takes a deep breath, because it’s now or never it seems.

“Hello,” He says back, fingers tugging aimlessly on the collar of his shirt, “I’m George Davidson, and I was wondering if I could talk to someone about joining your hockey club.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ twitter](https://twitter.com/venus__43?s=09)


	2. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George has seen plenty of Hockey Clubs, he’s toured countless run-down buildings and seen too many ice rinks to be impressed by them anymore. However, even if the initial awe isn’t something that he’s really capable of experiencing anymore, he can still feel the dread at having to get used to a new place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter ! right now I'm trying to get things properly moving, and I'm really enjoying writing this at the moment, so I hope you guys have fun reading it too !!  
> Enjoy !!

If he were to be honest, George definitely isn’t as excited as he’s been acting about visiting the new club. Sure, on the phone everyone had been nice, and he could hear just how eager they seemed to get going and introduce him to the others – who had most certainly called to confirm their interest much sooner than he had. But still, nerves weren’t something unheard of, anybody would be slightly cautious about going somewhere completely new, and even if this was just going to be him testing the waters, he had reason to be scared.

Summer came and went far too quickly, the long days got shorter and the leaves on the trees grew less and less until the seasons had clearly changed and he couldn’t go out as late into the night by himself anymore. For nearly a month, George had sat, wondering if his decision was the right one, and fretting over how he would adapt to joining ‘The Penguins’ – which George can’t help but to roll his eyes at whenever he hears.

As expected, his parents were thrilled when he finally told them, they insisted on calling every relative they had in the phone book, forcing George to sit through hours upon hours of video calls where they’d gush over how proud they were that he would get to play more.

The time away from team skating had been fun, with no need to go practice with his old team George had favoured solo skating, just so he wouldn’t be too rusty. The need to actually be in shape for whenever he starts playing again is obvious and slightly daunting, and despite how much he doesn’t want to, George understands why his parents usher him out of the house every day to get some exercise.

So, with reluctance, George pulls the front door shut behind him, closing him out into the crisp morning air. The hairs on the back of his arms stand up, his skin shielded from the wind only by the thin t-shirt that he’s wearing – the one that almost cuts of his circulation by how tight it feels around his torso. 

His shoes are loosely tied on his feet, marks on the side and dirt still stuck to the front of them from where he’d almost fallen over the day before. He doesn’t quite feel up to running, instead choosing to walk along his normal route with some level of haste. 

From what he’s seen the club isn’t too far past his usual path, maybe a twenty-minute walk away from where he normally ends up, and he’s walked past it – of course he has. However, he’s never actually gone in, preferring to just hurry past without giving the building too much attention, if any. 

And it’s probably stupid that he’s still scared, he’s going no matter what and he knows that, but still, George’s mind works against him in ways he can’t understand.

His walk slowly changes to a jog, feet picking up the pace and taking him down the street quickly, he turns corners and wanders past houses that he’s seen a thousand times, breathing steady as he keeps up his momentum. There’s a noise like screeching next to him, and George knows it’s just the scraping of tires on the rough ground as a blue car rolls past him, slowly disappearing onto the main road that starts just out of his sight.

It’s a hot day, many people out and about to enjoy it, and he’s slightly off-put by how they have the opportunity to stare, watch him as he jogs up the street like a fool, but he doesn’t mind it really, choosing to ignore it all and focus on getting his stamina up.

Ten minutes later, George can feel his breathing start to gets heavier and he nearly convinces himself that he should carry on for a while more before heading back, when he’s met with the low rumbling of the sky over his head. Sparing a glance up to the clouds, he knows he barely has half an hour before the rain will start to fall, and even if the weather is still warm and sticking to his skin, he doesn’t want to chance it.

Street after street pass by when he makes his way back home, his t shirt is clinging onto his body and little beads of sweat drip down from his hair to the back of his neck, making him shiver uncomfortably and shake his head. There’s nothing he wants more than to get home and find a shower and a spare pair of clothes, and his mind strays to how often he’ll have to do this to stay in shape when he finally goes back to playing.

When he gets home, he’ll have to sort everything out, find the easiest route there and back as well as make sure he has everything packed away ready for him to take. He’ll stress over whether or not he’ll get there on time and every day leading up to it he’ll have a restless night, where he watches over past mistakes he’s made on the ice and wonders if he’ll make them again.

On the side of the road just ahead of him, a bottle lies, cracked open with shards of glass splaying all over the pathway, and George jumps slightly, struggling not to trip over that and his own feet, as he makes careful steps around the scene. 

If George is being honest, running is one of his least favourite things to do, it’s too much cardio and relies on energy he doesn’t hold – but he prefers it over the stupid strength workouts that he does his best to get out of.

He’s not particularly strong. And sure, that’s odd for a hockey player but George makes it work – what he lacks in strength he makes up in agility, and that proves useful. He’s healthy, lean and good on his feet, and he makes an effort, so even if he does hate running, he knows it’ll help him in the future. Help him to impress his parents.

In the distance, his house approaches, getting closer and closer to tell George that he won’t have to continue this hellish workout forever. He’s glad, of course he is, but with each passing second, he’s reminded of how the next day is only getting closer, and soon he’ll be in a room with tens of others, all competing again.

George just hopes they’ll like him.

~

The building is much scarier than George thought it would be.

He’s seen it before, but he’s never stood outside it like this, staring over at the four walls from the path opposite as though they hold his future – and in a way they do. He stares for far longer than necessary, the heat that’s coming down from the sun making him uncomfortable, but he can’t do anything about it, trying to calm himself before he makes any moves.

It’s an old place, George can tell by the small windows and the sharp triangle shape that the dark-grey roof makes. And he spends far too long just looking at the large glass door, wondering if people are looking through it, directly at him. The walls tower over his head and he clutches the black strap of the bag he’s holding tightly. It’s only slightly menacing, George tries to tell himself, but the unknown that lies out of his sight spooks him more than he’d like to admit.

George has seen plenty of Hockey Clubs, he’s toured countless run-down buildings and seen too many ice rinks to be impressed by them anymore. However, even if the initial awe isn’t something that he’s really capable of experiencing anymore, he can still feel the dread at having to get used to a new place. 

The bottom of his stomach holds an irremovable sense of doubt; he can’t shake the tension out of his shoulders, standing still.

His heart is beating faster than it should be, and he doesn’t know why he’s working this up so much, it’ll surely be fine in the end. He swallows, his feet not making the move he needs to.

Forcing himself forwards, George falls into a slow step, wandering through the open space – that few cars have decided to park on – towards the door. His eyes drift up towards the large sign that sits outside, hung up precariously. ‘The Penguins,’ it reads, the big, bold letters completely unmissable, ‘Hockey club and Ice rink.’ 

Reaching a hand forward, George’s fingers trace the handle of the door and he would wait for a bit longer but by now the person behind the counter will have seen him if they hadn’t already, and they’d surely be confused if he doesn’t walk in.

The door pushes open, George stepping in hesitantly and closing it behind him, just to ensure the warm air doesn’t get into the cold room. He shivers slightly at the change in temperature but plays it off, keeping his hands by sides and glancing around the area.

Just to the right of him there are a large set of double doors, leading off to somewhere he can’t quite see and distantly he can hear what he assumes to be people speaking, but he can’t know for sure. On the other side he can see the tall vending machine that lies propped up against the wall, next to a wooden trophy case that holds few medals and a printed picture of a past team, but he doesn’t try and walk any closer to see if he recognises them.

He’s tired, even though it’s barely been 10 seconds since he walked through the door, and he’s already freaking out, holding his breath as he glances around, eyes settling on the counter and observing the sight in front of him.

A guy – who appears to be close to George’s age – stands in front of the desk, baggy shorts covering his legs and a large hoodie on his body and there’s something about him that George thinks he recognises but he can’t put his finger on it. His shoulders are wide, and he’s built in a way that makes George look small next to him. Dark hair that’s cut short at the sides shields him from the other’s view, and George doesn’t want to have to suffer through introducing himself, choosing to wait awkwardly a few steps away from him.

He hears the guy mutter a few words under his breath, leaning forwards to sign a paper that George can’t quite distinguish, before letting the person in front of him take it. He turns, looking at George for half a second before strolling towards the double doors too quickly for George to pick up on any of his features. 

“Hello?” 

George jumps. His head twists back to the counter and he looks towards the lady sat behind it, her black hair bunched together in locks that are tied carefully behind her head. She wears a wide smile, beckoning George over and her fingers thread together on top of the desk.

“You’re new,” She says with clarity, watching George cautiously walk towards her without the smile fading. She glances down, flicking through papers before pulling one out to bring it to the top. “Davidson?”

“Yeah,” George confirms. He watches her scribble something down, dark skin holding onto the pen loosely before dropping it down next to her and George doesn’t know what to do other than wait patiently. 

“Okay,” She says, humming softly, “I’m Jamie, we spoke on the phone.”

George – unsure on how to respond – nods and fiddles with the hem of his shirt, feeling as though he’s drowning in the material, but he takes a breath and notices the way the receptionist doesn’t seem to be judging him.

The nerves haven’t gone away, they’re less now definitely, but George still feels on edge as Jamie passes him a few papers, asking him to sign at the bottom after he gives it a quick once over. He takes a pen from the pot, his signature appearing rigid and bold on the small, dotted line of the page and he places them back onto the counter for her to take.

“Just through that door,” Jamie says, one hand resting in front of her and her other arm up in the air, pointing towards the doors that he’d seen the other man go past earlier, “Everyone else should be waiting for your coach to get here, in the office, so you can go wait in there with them. I don’t think you’ll need to get changed today – maybe you’ll need your skates, but I’m not too sure.”

She keeps up her grin, George starting to wonder if it’s fake because _god_ , someone should not be this happy so early in the morning and George stands under the harsh light that’s coming from the ceiling, wondering if he should start to move towards the doors and doing it despite his worries.

He pauses, glancing back to check if that’s what he’s meant to be doing, and when Jamie lifts a hand to give him a thumbs up, he pushes through, finding a long hallway that leads to numerous rooms with silver plaques on them. It takes him a second, but he finds the office, the name written out clearly on the door and he doesn’t go in straight away, hearing the voices he had heard before again, louder and far clearer.

_Deep breaths, everything’s going to be fine._

His hands hover over the frame, pushing down and George knows he needs to go in at some point, so without giving himself the change to dwell on it, he pushes forward, letting it swing open and reveal the room.

Almost in sync, heads turn to stare down at him, all from fairly tall men whose eyes pierce his skin with every second they stay stuck to his body. He ducks his head slightly, turning to close the door and feeling his face heat up. 

If he’s being honest, the others pay him no mind, all going back to their separate conversations and letting George stay stood by himself, but George still feels as though he’s made a bad impression, realising he didn’t even introduce himself to the group of people who he’ll be spending hours on end with, daily. He can wait to do it though, tell them when the coach gets there and he’s letting himself calm down when someone catches his eye.

The guy from earlier sticks out like a sore thumb in this room full of new faces, the wide shoulders and slightly scruffy facial hair making George’s eyes widen as he sneaks glances towards him. He recognises him, of course he does, after the loss he took that day there’s no way he wouldn’t recognise anybody from that team, and sure he looks different without the number ‘18’ stuck to his back and wrapped around his arms on his sleeves but George knows that face. He never knew the guy’s name, just knew that he played alongside Dream, right wing, and was far too aggressive for his own good – but in his defence that was what won them the game.

“Shit,” George mumbles, and he wonders whether or not the guy has recognised him too (with his rivalry with his former teammate and all) but he shows no indication towards having noticing George, instead talking to someone in the corner with few others crowded around them. 

For a while, George expects to just stand there in silence while he waits for the coach, but he’s proved wrong when a tall man walks up to him, brown hair and a small smile towering over his shorter frame. 

“Hi, I’m Will,” The man says, voice deep, “I’m guessing you’re a little lost too.”

George flushes harder, “Is it that obvious?”

Will smiles, shaking his head (probably just to stop George from getting more embarrassed) and he raises an eyebrow, “British?” He asks, George only just picking up on the others accent as well.

“Woah, yeah,” He says, “You too?” 

Humming, Will nods, his head slightly tilted, and his lips parted, and they stand in silence for far too long before Will intervenes again, “Your name?”

“Oh, sorry” he starts, and god if George hadn’t thought he’d made a bad first impression at first, then he definitely thinks he has now. “I’m George, nerves are really getting the best of me.” 

Thankfully, Will chuckles, possibly just trying to make him feel less awkward than he currently does but it works, and George appreciates it. “You excited George? Know anyone here?”

“I am, yeah!” and George half-considers telling the other of how him and the dark-haired guy in the corner actual have seen each other before, had a few not so friendly interactions in fact, but part of him doesn’t want to bring that forwards into this new chapter of his life, and he listens to it, lying through his teeth as he says, “But no, I’ve never actually seen any of the people here, it’s scary.”

“We’re in the same boat then!” Will exclaims, far too loud for the small room they’re in and George feels eyes on them for half a second before Will glances around and apologies quietly. “I’ve introduced myself to some of the others though, they’re chill, you’ve got nothing to be worried about.”

“Thanks,” George says, feeling a bit of the weight lift from his shoulders and he lets Will lead the conversation, everything flowing far easier than he had expected it would, and Will’s funny, he likes that, his laughs not feeling forced. They make the awkward small talk anyone would expect from them for a few minutes while they wait, Will telling George trivial things about his family, friends and other small things like that and George follows along with little facts about himself too.

Their conversation drags after a while, and George is starting to become unsure on what to say when the door opens, and everyone turns in unison to see who’s there.

 _Finally_ , George thinks, watching as a man wanders in, a clipboard held close to his chest and loose, sports clothes on his body, he wears a little pin, the words ‘Coach Davis’ on the steel and George follows Will closer into the room so they aren’t stood in the way.

The man (who chooses not to speak for a moment) does a quick head count, pointing to each one of them before glancing down at his list, the words “all except one,” barely falling onto George’s ears. 

He feels Will nudge him lightly, tapping his arm with his elbow to get his attention and once he has it, he pulls a face, making George roll his eyes and smile, before looking back to the front of the room.

“Hello,” The man – who George assumes to be Coach Davis says, looking around a bit more with his fingers tapping the clipboard as he studies them all, “And welcome to your first day here, playing for me.”

George gulps.

“As you should know, we’re a well-respected club,” He continues, “After today you should know for sure, whether or not you should be here, and this isn’t to scare you, from what I know you’re all very talented and I do want you here – I just need to make sure you’re cut out for it.”

Around him, George sees everyone nod in understanding and he follows along, pointedly not making eye contact with the others.

“I’ll your coach, my job is to make you guys the best you can be, and your job is to make that as easy as possible.” Davis says, “Now we are expecting someone else, but he’s already called ahead to say he’ll be a bit late.”

From the other side of the room, George can feel eyes on him and when he turns around to check who from, they’ve already stopped. 

“For now, I’ll just have you follow me, you can leave your things in here and I’ll lock the door.”

Reluctantly, George slides his bag off of his shoulder, letting it fall to the ground with a loud thump. Will drops his bag down next to his, smiling to himself as they both move to leave the room, following behind everyone else. They travel through the hallway; multiple rooms being introduced as they pass by them.

“The infirmary.”

Everyone stays quiet as they go through the tour, trying not to forget anything that could be of importance and there are more rooms than George could have ever expected, the locker room being much cleaner and far nicer that George is used to, and there are far too many spaces dedicated to warming up and cooling down for him to keep up.

They round a corner, all stopping before Davis speaks again, “And this,” he says, a proud expression on his face, “Is our ice rink.”

He pushes the door open slowly, no one moving for a second as they crane their necks to look through before finally stepping in.

It’s impressive, George must admit, the rink being much bigger than he had expected, and it’s obviously not a place cut out for actual full-on matches but it’s still more than any team would need for practice, especially at this level. 

The space is wide and open, and George almost can’t believe that this is where he’ll be practicing – not competing just practicing. Everyone else seems to be in a similar state, admiring the space and waiting for the next word to be spoken.

The coach lets them stand idly for a while, Will sharing his excitement with George through a raise of his eyebrows, and the next time George turns around Davis seems to have disappeared.

Standing near the door, the guy George had recognised from the past match is staring at him, recognition clear in his face, and if George had hoped for a new beginning, he doesn’t think it possible anymore. Although the man has managed to place him, he doesn’t seem too bothered, only slightly cautious, and George has to stop himself from staring back and questioning if they have bad blood.

Few seconds pass, George standing awkwardly by the wall, and he wonders whether or not they’re supposed to be doing something, maybe speaking to one another and getting friendly, but the door opens again before anything can happen, answering George’s questions.

Davis appears for the second time, but instead of leaving the door to slam closed behind him, he holds it open, stepping to the side to let another person in the room. George can feel the unfazed expression slip off of his face, replaced with wide, confused eyes and his mouth hanging agape, he stares up at dirty blond hair and a face that looks equally as shocked as he is, and he doesn’t know whether or not they should say something.

“Fuck,” they say in unison, Dream’s face turning cold and staring daggers at George.

Maybe he had a right to be worried.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments/kudos are greatly appreciated and I absolutely love reading them so if you want, leave a comment :)
> 
> as well as that, come interact with me on [ twitter](https://twitter.com/venus__43?s=09) I'm always looking for people to talk to !!


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